


Job Hazards

by PajamaSecrets



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 00:05:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1407595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PajamaSecrets/pseuds/PajamaSecrets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“But those are definitely nail indents.” Beverly forms her hands into a strangle-hold, curling her fingers, as if to demonstrate. “Crescent-moons.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“I know, Bev, I’m not an idiot,” Brian sighs.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“That’s debatable,” Jimmy’s teasing sing-song voice rings out from behind them.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Job Hazards

“What have you got?” Beverly asks. She sits in a stool near a microscope, propping her elbows on the lab table.

 

Brian stands in front of a steel gurney. He waves his hands, which are covered with bright-blue surgical gloves, indicating to his coworker that he needed a moment to collect his thoughts. Jimmy, fingerprint expert, stands next to Brian with his arms folded, eagerly awaiting Brian’s analysis. Brian scratches at his dark brown hair with the back of his arm, then takes a deep breath.

 

“John Doe, sixty-three years old,” he begins. “Blunt force trauma to the back of the head, no sign of a struggle, which means killer attacked from behind. No significant tissue decay, which suggests he was killed under forty-eight hours ago. His fingernails were removed post-mortem. Guessing the killer took them as trophies.”

 

“Oh, talk dirty to me,” Jimmy teases.

 

“Shut _up_ ,” Brian complains, rolling his eyes. He swats Jimmy’s ass on his way to get a fresh pair of gloves.

 

“ _Hey_!” Jimmy exclaims in feigned annoyance. “Respect your elders!”

 

“You’re forty-seven!” Brian says.

 

“God, you guys, get a room,” Beverly groans from down the table, face now fixed against her microscope.

 

“I can’t help that I’m so irresistible,” Jimmy remarks with a wink.

 

The lab door opens abruptly and bangs against the wall _. Crawford_. The three scientists cease their banter immediately.

 

“Crime scene. I need you out there, stat.” Jack Crawford's voice booms.

 

“Couldn’t catch the perp?” Brian asks.

 

“Why the hell else would I need you three?” Crawford yells. His hands clench into fists at his sides.

 

“I’ve brought a car around front. I expect your asses in the seats in no less than ten minutes.”

 

Crawford storms out and slams the door behind him.

 

“Drama queen,” Jimmy mutters under his breath. Beverly sighs. Brian laughs and wheels John Doe back to the drawer he came from.

– – –

Crawford leads the forensics team into the bedroom of a small apartment. Inside, a few cops are milling around the bed, where a dead body lays. The victim is pale and the skin at his neck is purple and yellow. His blue eyes are open and glossy, staring vacantly at the ceiling. “Henry Taylor, thirty-five years old. Strangled to death,” Jack explains. “Knock yourselves out.” He leaves the room in a rush, motioning the cops to come with him.

 

“I’ll go look for prints,” Jimmy announces, leaving Brian and Beverly alone to scope out the body.

 

Beverly takes out a pad of paper and a pen as Brian kneels on the bed to take a closer look. He sees no bruises other than those around the victim's neck. The victim's dark hair is impeccable—no sign of blood or other fluids.

 

“Killer must have got him while he was sleeping,” Brian remarks. “No sign of a struggle.”

 

“Really? Nothing under the nails?” Beverly asks.

 

“Uh, there’s dirt. I don’t see much else,” Brian shrugs. “But you should go ahead and take a scraping anyway.”

 

Brian reaches forward and tilts the dead man’s head gently. He notices small red splotches creating an angled pattern on the side of the neck.

 

“Looks like the killer broke the skin,” Beverly says, pointing to the marks Brian was observing.

 

“Nah,” Brian says in his I’m-Thinking-Out-Loud tone, “He’s pretty stiff. Suggests onset time of rigor mortis was at least four or five hours ago. Any blood on him should be nice and crusty brown by now. Whatever this stuff is, it’s not blood. Color’s too bright,” Brian explains.

 

“But those are definitely nail indents.” Beverly forms her hands into a strangle-hold, curling her fingers, as if to demonstrate. “Crescent-moons.”

 

“I _know_ , Bev, I’m not an idiot,” Brian sighs.

 

“That’s debatable,” Jimmy’s teasing sing-song voice rings out from behind them.

 

“Oh, so you’ve finally decided to help us out,” Brian says, not looking away from the marks. He prods at the skin.

 

“Excuse me, I was busy lifting some lovely prints off the front door handle,” Jimmy says, pointing behind him.

 

Brian holds out a hand. “Do you have a scraper?” He asks Jimmy.

 

“How many times have I told you to bring your own tools? You and Beverly have been here for three years, you’d think you’d this stuff by now.”

 

“Do you have one or not?” Brian wiggles his outstretched hand.

 

“Yes.” Jimmy procures a tool from the pocket of his white coat.

 

Brian takes the tool from Jimmy’s outstretched hand. “Thanks, sweetie,” he says brightly.

 

“No problem, hon,” Jimmy replies, a smile in his voice.

 

Beverly sighs emphatically. Brian grins. He pulls out an evidence bag from his pocket and begins to gently scrape off the dried substance from the victim’s neck.

 

“We’re not going get much else without the body in the lab, and I’m guessing Jack won’t let us have it until tomorrow,” Jimmy says. “Let’s collect some more evidence and then head back.”

 

“Aye-aye, captain,” Brian says with a mock salute.

– – –

The next day, Jack Crawford barges into the lab.

 

“Thank you for knocking,” Jimmy says dryly.

 

“You’ve got access to the body,” Jack announces. “It’ll be up from the morgue in an hour.”

 

Jimmy smiles. “Oh, goody.”

 

“Got any info for me yet?” Jack asks.

 

Beverly clears her throat. “Yes. Brian and I ran an analysis on an unknown material we found on the victim’s neck. Contains nitrocellulose, titanium dioxide, and mica.”

 

“Nail polish,” Brian translates.

 

“Which suggests our murderer is a lady,” Jimmy says.

 

“Any luck with the prints?” Jack asks Jimmy.

 

Jimmy shakes his head. “All the prints I lifted were the victim’s.”

 

“So all we have to go on is nail polish,” Jack sighs. “I'm going to read up on this guy. Past girlfriends, place of work, do some interviews. I would like a few more answers from you later today.” Jack turns and leaves the room.

 

“You forgot to slam the door,” Jimmy remarks once Jack is out of earshot.

– – –

Brian is rudely awakened at five in the morning by his cell phone. He blindly grabs it from his nightstand and flips it open. “Fucking hell, Jimmy,” he says, voice groggy from sleep, “if you're drunk dialing me again, I'm going to throw out all of your booze.”

 

“Brian.” Jack Crawford's voice comes from the other line.

 

 _Shit_. “Uhh, sir. What is it?”

 

“There's another body.”

– – –

 

Brian, Jimmy, and Beverly stand over the dead body in the morgue.

 

“Male, mid-thirties, strangled. No struggle, and no trauma to the head,” Brian rattles off, gesturing toward the man's head of undisturbed brown hair. “And the same nail indents.”

 

“She killed again,” Beverly says. “It's not a one-off vindictive girlfriend's kill, then.”

 

“Maybe she had multiple lovers,” Jimmy suggests.

 

“Unlikely,” Brian says. “Maybe she's killing off ex-boyfriends?”

 

“Jack said he couldn't find a convincing lead with Henry Taylor,” Beverly says. “The guy was a recluse. No girlfriends. Worked from home. He only emerged to buy groceries.”

 

“And no prints again,” Jimmy says.

 

All three of them look down at the body. The man is tall—his feet hang precariously at the edge of the long steel gurney.

 

“We have to find something before she kills again,” Beverly says.

 

“What are we missing?” Brian says quietly.

– – –

Jimmy hums a tune under his breath as he wipes down the lab tables. He had put Henry Taylor's body away a half an hour ago after the team had finished running tests. Again, they had come up with frustratingly inconclusive results. Beverly had left then, exasperated, leaving Jimmy and Brian to close up the lab by themselves.

 

Brian taps his fingers against the top of the lab table. His eyes flicker from the table, to Jimmy, back to the table, then back to Jimmy. He swallows and counts to ten. “Jimmy?”

 

Jimmy looks up from the other side of the lab. “Yes, Brian?”

 

“Do you, uh, um,” Brian starts. He scratches the back of his head. “Do you.”

 

Jimmy snickers. “Having trouble there?”

 

Brian shakes his head. “No, I, uh. I. Wanted to ask you something.”

 

“Ask away,” Jimmy says, going back to scrubbing the table.

 

Brian takes in a breath through his nose. “I wanted to know if... maybe-you-wanted-to-go-get-dinner-with-me,” Brian races through his words.

 

“Whoa there, tiger,” Jimmy says. “No need to rush.”

 

Brian splutters. “I-I'm sorry, I didn't—”

 

“Tonight at nine sound good?” Jimmy asks.

 

Brian's eyes widen in surprise. Then he laughs, giddy. “Yes,” he says, relief tinging his voice. “Yes.”

– – –

Beverly sits at her desk at home, flipping through the case files. The sky is dark outside the window, and her desk lamp is blindingly bright.

 

“Let's see here,” she mumbles, spreading out pictures of both the victims on her desk.

 

She stares at the photographs, at their dark hair and pale skin and washed-out blue eyes. She bites at the bottom of her lip, focusing harder.

 

Her phone rings. She glances at the screen before picking up.

 

“Yeah, Jimmy?” She says.

 

“Is Brian with you?” Jimmy asks.

 

“No, why would he be?” She asks. “Isn't he with you?”

 

“Why would he be with me?” Jimmy says.

 

“Brian tells me everything, you doofus,” she says. “He called me a few hours ago, squealing like a schoolgirl. I was wondering when he'd work up the courage.”

 

“You and me both,” Jimmy says with a chuckle. “Anyway, he was supposed to be here a while ago. I called both his cell and his home phone, but he's not picking up.”

 

“Maybe he's got the jitters?” Beverly suggested.

 

“Hm,” Jimmy says. “Don't know. Maybe he caught that bug that's been going around the office.”

 

“Well, if he calls me, I'll let you know,” Beverly says.

 

“Okay,” Jimmy says. “It just seems a little odd. Especially for Brian.”

 

“I'm sure everything's fine,” Beverly says. She looks up at the picture frames sitting on her desk and smiles. A picture of Brian and Jimmy stands in the middle, a candid one of them laughing. Jimmy has his knuckles in Brian's brown hair, and Brian's bright blue eyes were fondly looking down at Jimmy—he was almost a head taller.

 

She absentmindedly glances down at her case files.

 

The air rushes out of Beverly's lungs. “ _Shit_.”

 

“What is it, Bev—”

 

“We need to get Crawford and his guys over to Brian's house, _now_.”

– – –

Brian opens his eyes. He groans, head pounding. He had just sat down on his bed to put on his shoes before his date with Brian. Date. The word excites him more than it should.

 

But his head _hurts_. He stands up, and becomes so dizzy that he falls over.

 

“Shit,” he grumbles.

 

“Mind your language,” A voice says.

 

Brian flinches. “Who's there?”

 

With effort, he moves his head upward to look at the intruder. A woman stands in the doorway to his bedroom. She picks at her bright red nails. Realization sparks in Brian's brain.

 

“Fuck,” he says. His fingers itch for something to defend himself—a knife, a gun, anything, but his body is hopelessly limp. He can't move.

 

“Stay still,” the woman purrs.

 

“What the hell did you give me?” Brian groans.

 

“A woman never reveals her secrets,” the lady says with a wink.

 

Brian heaves with the effort of propping himself up on an elbow. “But there—there was nothing on the toxicology reports,” he says, gasping.

 

“Aww, you're so cute,” the woman says. She bends down to where Brian is sprawled out on the floor. “But I'm sick of hearing you talk. Let's cut to the chase, shall we?”

 

Her hands latch onto Brian's throat, nails painfully cutting into the sides of his neck. Brian squirms, clawing at the woman's arms. His vision blurs.

 

Brian can faintly hear his front door being kicked open.

 

“Police,” Jack Crawford's voice booms, “come out with your hands where I can see them!”

 

The woman grips harder.

 

Jack Crawford appears in the doorway. Seeing Brian being strangled to death on the floor, he whacks the attacker in the side of the head with the butt of his gun. The woman is thrown to the side. A cop emerges from behind Jack and swiftly handcuffs her, dragging her out of the room.

 

Brian is gasping and coughing, oxygen returning to his spent lungs. He shuts his eyes tightly, willing his head to stop spinning.

 

“Brian!” A voice cries. Brian blearily opens his eyes.

 

Jimmy and Beverly burst through the doorway. Jimmy kneels down next to Brian and takes Brian's hand in his. Jimmy's hands are warm. Brian sighs.

 

“How did you know to come,” Brian says, voice cracking with strain.

 

“Bev put two and two together,” Jimmy says.

 

“The killer had a type,” Beverly explains. “Both victims had short dark hair, blue eyes, and were over six feet tall. And when Jimmy called to say you were missing...”

 

“We panicked,” Jimmy says.

 

“Good thing you did,” Brian coughs. Jimmy squeezes Brian's hand.

 

Brian breathes in through his nose. He looks up at Jimmy.

 

“I'm sorry I stood you up,” Brian says with a shaky laugh.

 

“Shut up,” Jimmy says, rubbing his thumb over the back of Brian's hand. “It's okay.”

 

Brian smiles. “Alright.”

 

Brian closes his eyes, breathing slowly. Jimmy leans down and kisses Brian's forehead.

 

“Everything's going to be okay,” Jimmy says.

  


Brian smiles. “It already is,” he says, threading his and Jimmy's fingers together.

  


“You two are ridiculous.” Beverly says.

  


The three forensic scientists burst into laughter.

  


Everything was going to be okay.

 


End file.
